


Rockabye

by Shanachii



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Catharsis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OC, Other, VictUuri, Victor Nikiforv Backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-07 22:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11068662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shanachii/pseuds/Shanachii
Summary: Everyone comes from somewhere. Victor Nikiforov is no exception.Now, on Christmas day, in a home short one son, can this family be patched back together? Or will old secrets tear them even further apart?





	1. Part I

Klara liked to think she was a good woman. She rose early each morning, woke her husband with a kiss and made a school lunch for the kids. She came home at 5 o’clock without fail every night. She made sure there was always food on the table and warmth in the home. So, generally, she believed this made her a good woman, good wife, good mother. 

But it was this day, this one day every year, that she had to question that. That she woke up early, rolled out of bed without any thought of her husband, passed the kitchen without packing lunches and unfolded the rickety stairs up to her attic. It was the day that, as she wrapped herself in a warm sweater and felt her calloused feet press against the old, rough wood, she thought about the reality of her situation. It was this day, every year, that Klara loathed herself more than anyone would ever know. 

It was quiet in her home. Her family knew that today was not as jovial a day as it should be, after all. But outside she could hear the chime of church bells and the low tones of old hymns she had stopped listening to long ago. 

She knew that when the children woke they would find little treats she had laid out last night. They would nibble on them quietly, slip into their church clothes and head to mass with their father. All the while their cheeks would be flushed and their eyes wide as they chirped about their excitement for New Years, for Grandfather Frost to arrive with presents in tow. 

That was a comfort to Klara. At least they would smile. At least their father would drive them around St. Petersburg for the day, buying the sweets and warm drinks until he knew it was safe to come home. He’d come back that afternoon knowing his Klara was alright. Then, for the rest of the year Klara could go on pretending she was a good woman. 

But, for now, she was just a person kneeling in her attic alone. That’s how it should be. She was alone as he had been. Today, she was a bad woman.

Klara sniffed a little, holding back a silent tear that threatened to escape. It was too early for tears. She would do enough crying later. For now, she just had to find the box. 

She shifted through the boxes, tucking a stray blonde hair behind her ear. She remembered the way he used to play with her hair. The way he would giggle and play with his own sometimes. He delighted in how similar their hair was. Mostly because he thought the colour was so pretty. 

“Platinum blonde is unique,” she had mused, thinking of her own mother’s similarly coloured hair. 

“Platium blonde.”

“No, angel, it’s pronounced platinum.”

“Platnum.”

That would have to be good enough, she had thought at the time, turning her attention back to the table, to sort and count the coins she had collected on the subway that day. 

Prioritizing pocket change seemed like a comical thing to do now. Comical in a way that left a bitter taste in her mouth. She remembered what it felt like back then, being hungry and cold while trying to keep her angel fed and warm. She remembered to fight. Worst of all, she remembered the feeling of failing. 

This she wouldn’t fail at, however. This was a routine. Somehow, every year she forgot where she put that little wooden box and somehow it was always in the same place: tucked beneath a rocking chair a few generations too old to actually use. 

Klara couldn’t help but smile a little at the painted box, couldn’t help but let that smile reach her eyes as she peered behind it at the scrapbooks lined up for later. There was some comfort in the process, knowing her end never had to be his. 

Carefully, like turning the pages of old scripture, she raised the lid. There was the slightest resistance from the old metal hinges that had spent a year at a time not working but she managed to pry the box open, as always. Inside were the old keepsakes she liked to think all mothers kept: a pair of blue baby socks, a pouch with his first fallen tooth, and dried clay with the small imprint of his hand pressed in it with a beautiful permanence Klara could only describe as soothing. 

Then there was the photo. She sighed seeing it now. On the back was his name, sprawled neatly in cursive: Victor Nikiforov. It was a beautiful name, a regal name. She was glad she could give him that much at least. His name always sounded so triumphant. She turned the photo back around and traced her fingers over the glossy side. 

There was the angel with his sweet little face. He grounded her with his comfortable weight in her arms. He was warm, soft and new to the world. Klara couldn’t think of a better thing to be. 

Of course, he had to get older one day. He had to get taller, louder, needier. He grew at a pace Klara couldn’t keep up with from that day on, no matter how bad she wanted to. She was a lone child raising a lone child. No father, no grandparents, no lover or friend was there to save them. It was Klara and her Vitya against the world. That had made her feel strong once. But as she watched him, bags under his eyes, blisters on his feet, wasting away in their tiny room with nothing but a toilet, a mattress and a tap, she realized fighting the world was hard work for a little boy. He was too young to pull weight and she simply could not make up the difference.

Klara sniffed and wiped her face again. It was always the baby photo that got her. How could it not be? That beautiful Christmas photo of the first great gift she had ever received was the most obvious thing for her to cry at.   
With care, Klara placed the picture back in the box, sliding her mementos to the side as she reached forward for the scrapbook. She liked to remind herself, sometimes, that had she not signed him away these books would have never been filled. The knowing guilt never disappeared because of that, but it helped a little. As she flipped open the pages she remembered how she had acquired her first photos in the first place. It was her darlings’ doing. 

“Look, Mama, it’s Victor Nikiforov!”

She remembered standing in the door way, just home from work, as her youngest shoved the picture of Victor in her face. It was signed in fresh ink and in what was unmistakeably his handwriting. 

“Where did you get this, darling?”

Her daughter just smiled that wide, oblivious smile and rocked on her heels innocently. “You always look so happy when he’s on TV. So, Dima and I stood outside the rink this morning and waited for him.”

“But the rink is on the other side of town! How early were you standing out there?”

“Around five, I think,” her daughter replied, waving the detail off like nothing. “Do you not like it Mama?”

No, Klara didn’t like it. She didn’t like the image of her children all together. She didn’t like the practiced smile her Vitya must have given them as he politely signed one of the photos he carried for fans. She didn’t like the way he must have turned away, the memory of meeting his younger siblings nothing but a flicker. She didn’t like that he wouldn’t know. He’d never know.

“I love it,” she had said instead, clutching the photo to her chest and feeling like the worst kind of liar. “Thank you, Masha.”

From then on Dima and Masha went out of their way to find the newest posters, to cut out pictures from magazines. Then that same year on New Years, only a week after his birthday, they presented her with this book. It was filled to the brim with pictures and articles documenting his career from beginning to end and all the wonderful bits in between. 

She supposed, though, that it didn’t start at the very beginning. Had the books started then it might have tainted the optimistic view of it all.

It had been cold that winter, colder than most. Klara had tried very hard that year to buy a heater. Victor was skinny and rarely had a full belly so the chill affected him more than it should have. She remembered setting up candles around the room, boarding up the windows just to be sure they were as insulated as they could be. Then, when the shivering got to it’s worst state and his teeth chattered beneath blue lips, she would stand him up and ask him to dance. 

“Please, angel, Mama would love to see you dance.”

“I’m so cold,” he’d repeat in a whine. 

She would try and try and try again for as long it took to get him on his feet and moving. The more he moved the warmer he’d get. As it was, lying down was a death sentence for Vitya. 

Finally, after long enough of prompting, she would hug him close and dance him around the room on her toes. She’d start with a waltz, turn it into a swing, until he eventually started dancing all by himself. 

“Lovely, Vitya,” she’d compliment, as the blanket swished along behind him. He always insisted on wearing it like a cape. “You look wonderful.”

“Do I dance as well as you, Mama.”

“Better,” she’d answer. And she wasn’t lying.

Even in the cold, on the brink of freezing, when a dance was all that stood between him and an early grave, Victor danced beautifully. It had always been the strongest thing about him. Klara wasn’t the only one to notice.

When the blizzards calmed and the season came down from it’s peak Klara began to take Victor outside more during the day. That’s when all eyes turned to them. 

She remembered the look on Vitya’s face when she had managed to get her hands on a pair of second hand skates. She had a little money left after managing to find a heater for the house and this seemed like the perfect birthday gift for Victor.

She’d never forget the look on his face when she took him to the little public pond where all the other children played and handed him his skates. His eyes were as big as saucers as he inspected the worn things. 

“The sharp bit’s all orange,” he said, his thinly gloved finger skimming the blunt side of the blades. 

“Because it’s gold,” Klara fibbed. It truth, she had spent all her time last night sanding down the rust and was left instead with this strange hue on the metal. 

Victor didn’t seem to mind the colour. In fact, after hearing her explanation he rushed to get the skates on, his tiny hands moving as fast as they could over the laces. He had been so eager that day as he tripped and slipped around the ice. Her son had the grace of a colt at first but she was sure he’d get better. After all, he seemed happy enough to practice. That was all they needed. 

It was the next few weeks, as the ice began to thaw and the season began to slip away that her son became more desperate, so desperate that for the first time in his life he asked her for something he had never asked for before. 

“May I please have 25$ for a field trip?”

He had known what he was asking for. 25$ was enough to spend on small meals for a day, two days if you knew how to stretch it. Klara took the permission slip regardless. She was curious. She wanted to see what Victor was willing to pay two days’ worth of food for. One look at the form told her all she needed to know. 

“Your class is going skating somewhere.”

“Not somewhere,” he said, puffing his cheeks and shaking his head. “The rink where Yakov Feltsman skates.”

“The Olympian?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And you know this how?”

He blushed, coiling a tendril of long hair around his finger. That was all it took for Klara to know that her boy was hopelessly and fatally hooked. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to unhook him. He just looked so God damn happy.

With a slow, measured breath she signed the paper. She would make it work. She had to.


	2. Part II

Privacy was a valuable thing, immensely so. Recognizing that was paramount for a celebrated athlete. Yuuri would never say he was such a star but he saw the worth of solitude all the same. That’s why Yuuri hadn’t prodded that first Christmas with Victor. It’s why he accepted it when his fiancé suggested they not make a big deal out of his birthday. It made sense.

He still remembered that year. It had been difficult. On top of the constant charge of competition driving them forward as a team there was that ever-present glass wall pushing back at them. They were friends, lovers, family and more to each other. They were also both men, a fact the outside world had not failed to notice. Sure, suspicion about Victor’s own sexual history had followed him since he was young, but this was public and serious. He had been outed to all of Russia without even having to say the words. 

“It’s fine,” Victor had assured Yuuri on the night they arrived in his mother country for the Rostelecom Cup. It was the first time Victor had gone home since he began coaching Yuuri, the first time home with Yuuri, the first time home since he had created televised proof of his sexuality with a public kiss. “We’ll be fine.”

Yuuri had known they would be. Deep in his gut he could feel the drive in Victor’s words. The world was going to leave them be or they’d make it bend to their will. It was them, their family, their friends against the world. 

With all that in the back of their minds and the pressure of a particularly grueling season Yuuri had not been totally shocked by Victor’s insistence to keep something to himself. 

It was the next year when Yuuri really started to suspect something. 

“Russian Catholics just go to Mass on Christmas, plus I never really celebrated my birthday,” Victor had said, waving off any verbal concern his husband had tried to show him. “We can celebrate on New Years. That’s a big holiday here!”

Admittedly, Yuuri stopped listening after that. Victor tried to distract him with long ramblings about the upcoming New Year but Yuuri saw right past it. There was no light in his eyes, no heart shaped smile on his usually bright face; Victor couldn’t care less about New Years. He just wanted an excuse, any excuse, to avoid the inevitable questions about his birthday. 

“Maybe his family forgot his birthday whenever Christmas rolled around so he stopped celebrating,” Yuuko had offered when Yuuri called her later that week.

“No, most of Russia is Orthodox so they celebrate on the Christmas on January 7th. The few Catholics there are don’t really make a big deal out of the 25th either.”

“Well, maybe he’s self conscious about his age?”

Yuuri could picture that. He could picture that so well he was surprised he hadn’t thought of it. Victor was always imagining the silliest things: wrinkles where none existed, a bald spot near the full-bodied crown of his head, a receding hairline that could be explained away by his slightly larger forehead. It was an insecurity of sorts for him, and Yuuri knew how to deal with those.  
That night, as Victor crawled into bed beside him, towel still hanging on his damp hair, Yuuri decided to a little push was needed. 

“Hello, handsome,” he muttered, rubbing the linen against his husband’s hair. Victor gave him a soft hum in return, the kind that reminded him of the purr of a cat. With a smile, he went on. “You seem tired.”

“Yakov was merciless and Yurio wouldn’t stop screaming.”

“It was the usual then.”

That earned him a chuckle. “I suppose so.”

Yuuri coiled his arm around Victor’s waist and pressed a kiss to his temple as he pulled him closer. He could feel the press of the Russian’s chest as he breathed in a deep satisfying puff of air and sighed it out contentedly. The kiss was returned tenfold when Victor pecked up the length of his neck, at his jaw and landed a dainty kiss on his lips. “It’s nice to come home to this.”

“It’s nice to have you home,” Yuuri replied. “So let’s celebrate it, yeah?”

“Oh ho ho, do I sense a special date night coming up?”

“Sort of,” he shot back with a shrug. “I was thinking you and me, at home, a nice bottle of wine, your favourite dinner, maybe a cake.”

“A cake?” Victor snorted. “You think the two of us can eat a whole cake.”

“Not all at once,” Yuuri laughed. “But we can get a small one. It’s more there for traditions sake, you know?”

Victor’s smile fell almost like it had been cued. 

Yuuri went on, drawing circles on the other man’s back with his fingers and trying desperately to keep his voice as sugary sweet as possible. 

“Don’t you think it might be nice, a day just about you, about us? We could keep it small. I just want the day to be happy for you.”

Another sigh escaped as Victor propped himself up on his elbow. He tossed the towel carelessly at the foot of the bed and stood, messing the sheets that had previously nested their warmth together for the night. “I’ll be happy when it’s over.”

Yuuri watched his retreating back, a little shocked. Almost two years together and Yuuri still could have never predicted that big a reaction to something as simple as another year tacked onto his age. He frowned and scrambled after Victor, wrapping his blue robe around himself as he followed him out of the master bedroom and towards the kitchen. 

“Vitya, what’s wrong?”

He could have sworn he saw the bigger man shudder as he shuffled over to the cupboards for a mug. It was an old habit of his, one Yuuri had noticed early on. Was it his turn to do the dishes? Let him get a tea first. He had to walk Makkachin on a cold day? First, let him make a tea. Laundry day? Sure, he’d start that right after he finished his tea. 

Yuuri shook his head and perched himself on one of the bar stools across the counter from him. There was no way he’d let this ritual get in the way of this conversation. 

“It’s just a number, Victor.”

“I know, a number on a calendar, like any other day.”

“Not the date, Victor,” he snickered at his attempted distraction. “The age.”

“The age?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri nodded. He watched as Victor flicked a switch on the kettle before turning and reaching for a second mug for him. “I know 28 is a tough age competitively but outside of skating it’s really not that old.”

“You think this about my age?” Victor huffed. Yuuri couldn’t get a clear read on him as he looked away to drop the tea bags in their cups. 

“Isn’t it?”

There was a beat of silence between them before Victor finally saw fit to turn around. His eyes were cast down, one corner of his lip was turned up and he looked like he desperately wanted to smile at his lover. He just couldn’t bring himself to look any less miserable than this. 

“December 25th isn’t just the Christmas and it’s not just the day I was born,” Victor admitted, the sound of the boiling kettle buzzing with heat behind him. “It’s also an anniversary.”

“Of what?”

“A lot of things.” The hissing kettle out Yuuri on edge as he watched the Russian try to articulate himself in a way he could understand. Looking for those words was a painful, screeching process. He could tell from the knit brows and searching eyes he rarely saw on Victor’s face. 

He reached his hand across the counter top and smiled. Victor’s breath hitched at the sight. In that moment Yuuri knew his smile wasn’t enough. He couldn’t fix whatever this was with sympathetic eyes and entwining fingers. No doubt someone had tried that before. He needed to ask and he needed to listen, just as Victor did when he was hurting. 

“Well, we don’t have practice tomorrow,” Yuuri offered, pulling up a seat on the stool beside him. “Why don’t we stay up, have a tea and talk it out?”

“…Alright.”

...

Klara’s Christmas ritual was far from complete when she heard the ring of the door on the main floor of the house. Today usually wasn’t a busy day. The few Catholics in town would be at mass at this time of day and Orthodox carolers wouldn’t stop by until January 7th. Out of all the days of the year this is the one she had trusted to keep her relatively alone.  
She stayed kneeling on the creaking panels, shifting her weight and flipping to the next page. Whoever it was could wait. This time was reserved for somebody else. Then it came again. She could have been imagining it but it sounded shriller the second time. 

Klara tightened her lips as she considered the intruder again. It might be her husband or the children home early. God knew if her man had made his way home early today it would have had to be for an urgent reason.  
Bones creaking more that the old floors, she rose from her place by the albums and descended carefully down the ladder. As she clutched the steps to tuck them back into the attic she heard the third ring. Then a few knocks, then another ring.  
This must have been urgent indeed. 

She scurried over, adjusting the hem of her cardigan, tucking her hair behind her ears and wiping away a stray tear. She knew her face would be puffy and red but hopefully the kids wouldn’t pick up on that little detail.  
She undid the latch, unlocked the front and opened the door, peaking through the crack to find something she had not at all expected. 

“Hello, um, privet! Menya sovut Yu-“

“Yuuri,” her eyes widened, her breath shook as her tongue curled around the name. “Yuuri Nikiforov.”

“Katsuki-Nikiforov but, yeah! I mean, da,” the young man adjusted his glasses with a shaking hand. 

It would have been hard to recognize him had she not seen his face next to her boy’s so often. Every picture of them together was a small blessing, one she welcomed. Had you told her decades ago that she would be happy to see her firstborn in the company of another man she would have dismissed it as a joke. As she had learned however toxic traditionalism wasn’t enough to stop her from smiling as she watched her jaded son fall in love from afar. 

That being said, she wasn’t exactly sure why. She saw the appeal well enough on the television. His sleek raven hair slicked back, a fitted V-neck shirt and a strapping blazer decorating his lean dancer’s frame. Anyone would find this petite athlete attractive on at least a surface level. Now though he seemed to be a scared, short foreigner with mussed black curls and a distractingly thick accent sitting on his broken Russian words.

“I speak English,” she offered him, as much for her comfort as for his. She let the door fall open a little more. “Or I speak English better than you speak Russian.”

He laughed at that. It was a strained laugh but not a hurt one. Under more comfortable circumstances she imagined he might even have a good humour when it came to himself. That was good. Victor seemed to take himself seriously enough for the both of them. 

“Oh, well, I’m looking for a Klara Nikiforov,” he muttered, a flustered pink running over his cheeks. She knew exactly what he was thinking as his eyes ran down the length of her platinum hair. It was a distinct, rare colour. He had the answer for whatever he wanted to ask. “You’re her?”

“I was,” she said curtly. “My name is Zakharov now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, this will definitely have to be a three chapter ordeal. Oh well, more to read then I guess. :) Sorry the update took so long, work has been a doozy lately. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this new chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> My first story is finally posted!!!!
> 
> This was originally supposed to be a oneshot but ended up much longer than expected. I hope to make it a two parter but I'll push it woith three if needed.
> 
> So, comments, kudos and subscribes are much appreciated.


End file.
